


The Depth of Love & Hell

by Kaicielia



Series: Miria [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Hallucinogens, Party at the Thieves' Guild!, Visions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 16:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4312380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaicielia/pseuds/Kaicielia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miria has been wandering Skyrim for some time; made a place for herself in the Thieves' Guild, trained with the Greybeards and has already dispatched several dragons. She has only recently taken an interest in the war effort, however, as her feelings for the man at the center of it develop into something she can not ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is turning out to be much longer than I anticipated, but so far things are working well. A lot of non-canon-ness. Finally finished the game I began more than a year ago only to realize I remember very little detail. Guess I'll have to play through it again; darn.
> 
> Since I'm going slowly chapter-by-chapter, I've realized that I'm often writing each chapter as if it were a stand-alone short. When I get it completed (If?) I'll have to edit a lot out.

Miria snuck through the dark halls, making sure to step lightly so she would not be heard. She had accepted the job in Windhelm for more than just promised coin. Splitting her time between the Guild and the Stormcloaks had so far worked out well; she was sure that neither knew of her association with the other. A job in Windhelm for the Guild gave her a chance to attend the meeting Ulfric had called for his commanders, not to mention ask him about the cryptic and unhelpful aid the Greybeards offered. First, though, she had to collect her take for the Guild.

A door creaked and light spilled into the hall ahead of her. Miria pressed herself against the wall and strained to hear whoever it was that had come out of the room. “The soldiers are ready,” a voice said as three forms turned away from her and fell into step side by side, carrying a lamp to light their way. “They await your order.”

“Good,” another voice answered. “I have a meeting with my commanders and the Dragonborn in the morning; I’ll have my orders then.” This one Miria recognized as Ulfric, leader of the rebellion. 

“Will she be back in time?” the first voice asked, doubt and disgust coloring his words. “She doesn’t strike me as trustworthy, coming and going as she does.”

“Perhaps it is best to leave her out of this,” the last voice agreed. “Let her deal with the dragons, as she is meant, but keep her out of our war. The men do not believe her claims of Nord blood and do not trust her.”

“And leave her to the Imperials?” Ulfric asked in response. “No. I don’t know if the story she tells of her past is true, but her abilities have proven a great boon, not to mention the faithful that flock to whatever cause she supports. As long as we can keep them working for our side, we should.”

Miria crept up the hallway as they continued, slipping into the doorway they had exited when she came to it. She smiled at Ulfric’s fear of her joining the Imperials; if only he knew how unlikely that scenario was. And what did they mean the men didn’t trust her? Ralof did, at least as much as she trusted him. The question of her Nord blood, however, she understood. The dark coloring she had inherited from her mother hid every trace, but she could still picture her father standing tall in front of Imperial soldiers, long blonde hair blowing in the wind.

She shook the thought from her mind and looked around the room. There were several knickknacks that would prove useless in any war but would likely sell for a pretty penny on the black market, so she slipped them into the bag she carried. She stopped at the battle map, noting the carved jade dragon placed with the Stormcloak troops. “I assume this one is for me,” she said quietly before adding it to her take. 

She made her way through the keep, filling her bag near to full before slipping out without anyone the wiser. The pilfered items joined the rest she had collected in her saddle bags and she returned to her rented room to sleep out the rest of the night and prepare for the upcoming meeting.

She gave Ralof a friendly embrace when she saw him and was pleased when he returned the hug without hesitation. The room looked different in the light of day and Miria noted several items she wished she would have been able to see in the dark. Ulfric had a hard look stamped on his face as he leaned over the map and Ralof led her in that direction.

Miria noted in amusement that the jade dragon had been replaced by a simple stone, set on the map leading the troops into battle. As they approached Ulfric looked up to them, his eyes remaining hard.

“You must excuse the Jarl,” Ralof told her as Ulfric went back to the map. “The keep was apparently robbed last night.”

Ulfric’s voice rumbled something Miria was not able to make out but before she could ask Ralof interrupted her. “But nothing of import was taken. Likely some prize for a hopeful guildy.” Ulfric’s eyes rose again, telling the entire room that he did not view the theft in such a superficial way, before he again turned to the map.

As he continued to lean over the map, Miria picked the stone up from it. She tossed it into the air a few times, ignoring the shocked stares that turned her way. “Do we know where they’re hiding out yet?” She asked. 

Ulfric snatched the stone out of the air during one of its descents and put it back in its place. “We’ve seen sign here and here,” he said, pointing to two spots on the map. “They’re likely using caves in the mountainside as shelter; they’ll have to be lured out.”

“I’m sure you can do it,” Miria told him. She gave him a wide, sly smile when he looked up at her. Despite beliefs otherwise, her father had been a true Nord and supported the Jarl fully in his quest for the throne despite the fact he’d left home with a Redguard bride. Miria had difficulty pinning down the reasons for her own loyalty; vengeance against the Imperials for killing her family, memories of her father and brothers’ loyalty and the unusual attraction she felt for the Jarl all tied in there somehow; but it was there, unwavering and unmistakable. 

After Ulfric stared at Miria for several long seconds, she washed the smile from her face and mimicked his own hard look. “Fine,” she said, leaning over the map opposite him. “Time to be serious. Where do you need me and what do you need me to do?”

He shook his head slightly and the ghost of a smile graced his features before he returned his eyes to the map. The meeting lasted hours, hours that Miria wished she was on the road to Riften so she could get the job done and return for the battle Ulfric planned. By the time all complaints and concerns had been addressed, the group agreed on the first plan Ulfric had suggested; walking the bulk of the army in the open on the road with several small groups of scouts scouring the hills and mountains looking for the ambushers he was sure were waiting. With the meeting adjourned, Miria caught Ulfric’s attention and walked out of the room at his side.

“Have you heard the rumor of a dragon in the area?” she asked him. “Probably lives up in those mountains somewhere, too.”

“I have,” he answered. “Figured you could take care of it.”

“I’ll do my best,” Miria conceded, “but I’m sure there’s more I could do. You’ve dealt with the Greybeards before; how can I get them to just tell me what I need to know?”

“What is it you need to know?”

“I….” Miria hesitated as she sorted through her thoughts. “They are hiding something; a lot of somethings if my intuition is correct. How can they expect me to save the world from dragons if they won’t tell me everything?”

“To tell you the truth, I never did understand the old men.” Ulfric’s eyes glazed over and he was suddenly very far away. “I was just a boy when they called on me, claiming I was Dragonborn. I believed them. Sure there were no dragons to be slain, but Skyrim suffered none-the-less and I wished to save her.”

“Why did they think you were Dragonborn?” Miria asked, followed shortly with, “How did they decide you weren’t?”

His eyes returned to her, pain and resignation warring within them. “As I said, I never have understood them. When they told me they were wrong about me I felt betrayed. I was convinced the prophesy was false, that they perpetuated the legend for donations and tithes. The skills they taught me remained useful, however, and so I continued to study.”

“And now they say I’m Dragonborn.” Miria looked to her feet as they walked. “Maybe they’ll change their minds about me, too.”

“Maybe,” Ulfric agreed. “Then again, dragons have returned to Skyrim. If they admit to a mistake this time, the world might turn against them.”

“What do you believe?”

They stopped at the door to the keep as the rest of the group walked out to relay the plans to their respective soldiers. Ulfric turned to watch as the last of his commanders left the hall before answering. “You are a strong woman with a talent in the Way of the Voice I have never witnessed. You have a legion of believers ready to follow your lead,” he finally answered. “A valuable boon for either side of this war. As for the prophesy….” He shrugged his shoulders and walked through the door.

Miria followed a couple of steps behind, processing his words. They didn’t exactly answer the question, but they did offer what information she wanted to know. She wondered, since they could both use the Voice, what difference made her Dragonborn and Ulfric not but he had hurried ahead and now walked with his commanders so she let the question go unanswered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brynjolf isn't himself as he's trying to bring the guild out of the hole Mercer Frey left it in. Miria establishes mandatory morale-building exercizes.

The battle was planned for two weeks hence, so Miria had plenty of time to return to the guild and collect her pay. Brynjolf was in his normal foul mood since discovering Mercer’s betrayal so Miria avoided him and sat with Delvin, handing over her bag of loot after first secreting the jade dragon in her hidden pouch; a souvenir of her own.

“Anything new?” Miria asked him, accepting the mug that Vekel set on the table in front of her with a smile.

“Business continues to improve,” Delvin told her, taking a long pull from his own mug. “Not that you could tell by Brynjolf’s mood.” His statement was punctuated by the man’s familiar voice shouting from the cistern. “Seems Mercer made himself quite a fortune skimming the profits, but Brynjolf can’t figure out where it’s all been kept.”

“Did he keep a house?” Miria asked, then to the man’s depreciating gaze, “Outside of the Guild, I mean. A house here in Riften or maybe something outside of town?”

“The guild has always prided itself on the freedom it offered its members,” he answered. “I’ve no doubt that will change shortly.” After another outburst from the door across the way he set pleading eyes on Miria. “I know you two are no longer involved, but maybe you could offer him a friendly smile and a word of encouragement? Save the rest of us a little grief?”

She gave him an unsure smile. Sure she and Brynjolf had had a short affair; he was a handsome and mysterious man with a powerful position in the guild while she had been a young and beautiful woman reveling in her newfound freedom. He offered a hint of stability and a warm, if damp, bed with the promise of better things to come if she stuck around and she had accepted the offer wholeheartedly.

As she travelled, however, Miria had moved beyond such things. There was so much more going on in Tamriel and with the fate of the guild in Brynjolf’s capable hands she found herself being drawn to bigger things. She did have some time off, though, and nothing holding her back from spending it with her former lover.

She stood and turned to the door of the cistern. “Well then, wish me luck,” she accepted, and was surprised when others in the room chimed in with their own well wishes. 

She approached the door slowly, careful not to make any noise that would alert him to her presence. Then she remembered the carefree and spontaneous nature of the relationship they’d shared and pushed the apprehensiveness away, throwing the door wide as she stepped through.

“Oh, look,” Brynjolf began, a sneer in his voice. “She graces us with her presence. I assume you managed your haul from Windhelm?”

Miria scoffed loudly. “What do you think?” she asked him in return. “I hear the reins of power don’t rest so well in your hands. Looking for some time off?”

He began to utter a denial, likely the same denial he’d offered each time someone else tried to get him to relax, but Miria interrupted him.

“I’m instituting a new guild policy. Morale-building exercises.” As Brynjolf stared at her in disbelief, Miria thought of the rebel army and the varied ways the commanders assured their soldiers would emerge from the blackness brought upon them. War was a painful, dirty and torturous experience and yet they managed to get thousands of young men and women to commit their lives to it. 

Except when on extended scouting missions, each soldier got a night off for every 10 they worked; while each commander was largely autonomous, Miria had seen this standard practiced nearly universally. Even then, young soldiers removed from their families often had difficulty letting go of the horrors they witnessed. Miria had seen commanders buy ale by the barrel for their troops, send parties to hunt game for a feast, seek the services of prostitutes and brothels; even stopping for a couple hours at a lake or river, allowing the men to clean the dirt from their bodies, seemed to raise spirits greatly.

While the situation of the guild differed; members largely operated on their own rather than under direct supervision; it suffered many of the same troubles. Miria had little doubt that before Mercer’s takeover the wealth of the guild was largely squandered on luxury and frivolity. That was why many sought to join, after all, what was a thieves’ guild without it? In the time Mercer had siphoned his fortune from the guild, however, members were lucky to get a bed, a dirty set of armor and a chest to store it in for the jobs they performed. Morale took a nosedive. It was about time they experienced what they deserved for the wealth they brought to the organization.

“A party.” Miria finally said after many seconds of silence.

“A party?” Brynjolf parroted her.

There was a shuffle of feet behind her and Miria turned to those who were watching from the shadows as her smile widened. “Yes,” she affirmed, turning back to Brynjolf. “On the night of every full moon, the guild will host a members-only party. Food and ale will be served, and other distractions will be offered as available.”

“Tonight is a full moon,” Brynjolf pointed out to her.

“What a coincidence!” She mocked him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “I get to attend the very first morale-building party, how exciting!” She threw an arm around him and began leading him to The Ragged Flagon.

Brynjolf followed reluctantly. “The guild is barely holding on as it is; Mercer took everything and left us with angry clients and owed bills that I am still trying to remedy. We can’t afford to host a party.”

“But I can,” Miria contradicted. “And it’s my guild.”

The door ahead of them opened and closed several times before they reached it as those who had been eavesdropping on their conversation cleared out before they were identified. Brynjolf’s scowl remained as they walked through the door, but Miria’s smile lit up the room regardless. “Vekel, my man,” Miria shouted.

“That’s Vekel, the Man,” Vekel corrected her.

She stuck her tongue out at the correction, causing several in the room to start and giggle. “How much booze do you have?”

“I… don’t rightly know,” he answered hesitantly.

“OK,” Miria decided to change her tactic. “How much for me to buy it all off of you right now?”

Silence fell and every eye in the room turned to her. Vekel seemed unable to answer the question. “Oh for the sake of all that is good, you people really need to loosen up.” Miria dropped a handful of Septims on the bar. “Is this enough?”

He began nodding slowly, then seemed to realize what he was doing and counted the coin. “More than enough,” he finally answered. “I could likely replenish my stocks twice over with this.”

“Good,” Miria answered. “Drinks are free tonight.”

A cheer rose in the tavern. “Vex,” Miria continued, “You help him get those stores replenished; there’s a chance he may run out. Rune, Sapphire; I’d like you two to go shopping.” She handed them a handful of coins as generous as what she’d laid on the bar. “Cabbage, potatoes, onions, apples. Also, a nice fat hog, cleaned and butchered. Anyone who has any musical or dancing skills better brush up on them. There’s going to be a test. You guys,” She gestured vaguely at the rest of the group in the tavern, “set up a spit for the hog, tables and chairs. A place for musicians and dancers.” She then took Brynjolf’s hand and led him to the rear exit of the sewer.

“Looks like you have been doing rather well for yourself,” he commented as he followed her, giving her a pointed look when she glanced back at him. When she ignored the comment and continued pulling him along, he asked, “And what are we after?”

“Other distractions as available,” Miria answered.

“And what is the purpose of these ‘other distractions?’”

“A party is a party is a party,” she explained. “Sure, it’s a nice idea, but after a while even that will get boring. So each party should have something new, something no one would expect.” They exited the mausoleum where the secret tunnel ended and exited the graveyard. “At first I thought prostitutes, then I remembered that half of the members are female and likely wouldn’t appreciate that much. Also, I remembered that Riften doesn’t have a brothel. Remind me again why the Guild doesn’t run a brothel.”

“Because Mercer had little business sense,” Brynjolf answered. “It isn’t a bad idea, though. Can I do the recruiting?”

Miria looked back to see the smile that was slowly making its way onto the man’s face. “Oh, good. The party hasn’t even started and you’re already remembering who you are.”

“I never forgot who I was,” Brynjolf defended himself. “I was just a little stressed. But seriously, if we start a brothel can I run it?”

Miria laughed aloud. “Brynjolf, dear, you run everything for me.” She led him to The Bee and Barb and ordered each of them a drink. As they drank she scanned the crowd for any ideas as to what other distraction she could include with her celebration. “Do you know where we could get fireworks?”

“Fireworks?”

“Yes, fireworks. Big pretty booms in the sky.”

“I know what fireworks are,” Brynjolf answered brusquely. “I wouldn’t have the first idea where to get them.”

“No prostitutes, no fireworks. Not enough time to plan anything really involved.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Brynjolf interrupted. When Miria looked to him expectantly he explained, “An herb that grows wild on the plains that has an unusual effect when eaten. It has a rather short season, but I know someone who makes it into a tea that can be used year-round.”

“By ‘unusual effect’ I certainly hope you don’t mean vomiting and diarrhea.” 

“No,” Brynjolf laughed, “although I have known some to vomit. It has an intoxicating effect different from alcohol. Was used by ancient warriors seeking answers from the Gods, or to symbolize a life transition – boy to man, man to husband, warrior to elder.”

“And the guild is transitioning from failure to success.” Miria raised her mug to toast the declaration. “Perfect choice. So how do we get some?”

Brynjolf raised his mug to toast with her and motioned for the attention of someone sitting across the bar. 

A man with half the height of the Nord and an outrageously decorated beard carried his own mug to the table. “Bryn, you old dog!” the man shouted in a gravel voice, his accent indicating he was from some faraway land. “Haven’t seen you in some time, what brings you out today?”

“Busy as always,” Brynjolf answered. “That’s actually why I called you over. My associate here would like to purchase some of your tea for a little R&R.”

“That’s some good R&R,” the man sneered, turning lecherous eyes on Miria. “Would you mind a little company?” He reached a hand between her legs and squeezed her thigh.

Miria erupted into action, lifting the small man from the floor and depositing him on his back on the table, attracting the attention of the tavern patrons. The table stuttered under the force but held strong. The man knocked all three mugs to the floor as he struggled, but stopped kicking when he felt the tip of a dagger bite at his exposed neck.

“Fordor,” Brynjolf said, barely able to keep laughter out of his voice. “Let me introduce you to the woman who dispatched Mercer Frey.”

“Oh, hey.” Fordor held out a hand, offering a truce. “So you’re leading the guild now?”

Miria released him from her grip and retrieved her mug from the floor. “Brynjolf runs everything, I’m just a pretty face.” She motioned to the bartender for another drink. At the continued stares from the patrons around her she shouted, “And that goes for anyone who can’t keep their hands to themselves!” The curious eyes turned away in embarrassment and fear.

“Of… of course,” the man stuttered as he returned his feet to the floor. He scooped up the other two mugs and placed them on the table. “I got this round.” He smiled an apology to the bartender as the drinks were replaced.

“Now, about our business,” Brynjolf prompted when everything had calmed.

The small group sat at the table for more than an hour, haggling over the price of enough tea to accommodate the entire guild. Miria decided she liked the man despite their rocky introduction. When the deal was struck, Fordor led them to his residence, where he handed them a sachet of soft brown and grey bits.

“This’ll make enough for your group,” he told them. “Boil the water, then remove it from the fire. Brew it for at least 15 minutes or all of the good stuff will remain in the leaves. Don’t allow it to brew for more than 30 minutes and don’t let the water keep boiling, or it will weaken until it doesn’t work all together.”

“You should join us,” Miria offered, securing the sachet in her bag. “We’ll have plenty to go around.”

Brynjolf’s face matched the look of unease on Fordor’s when she made the suggestion. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Fordor told her. “I have a habit of making enemies in your group.”

As she and Brynjolf left the little man’s house, Miria nearly ran over someone that was walking by. She thought she recognized him, but before she was able to right herself and inquire his name he had hurried on his way. She didn’t think much of it until she heard a shuffle behind them and realized they were being followed.

“We have company,” Brynjolf told her as she came to the same conclusion.

“So it appears,” she answered. “Gotten a good look?”

“Nord,” he answered. “Blonde, tall, carries himself like a soldier. Think the Imperials are still looking for you?”

Miria shrugged her shoulders, thinking that it was more likely the Stormcloaks were tailing her, but she kept her suspicions to herself. “We should circle the market and cut through the temple site,” she suggested. “As long as he doesn’t follow too closely we can get in through the crypt before he knows where we’ve gone.”

Brynjolf agreed and the two followed the plan, Brynjolf keeping watch outside the mausoleum as Miria opened the secret door. The man never came around the corner and they made it to the sewers without any further sign of being followed.

A rather delicious smelling hog was spit over a fire that had been assembled to one side of The Ragged Flagon. Several lidded iron pots were nested among the coals and Sapphire pointed them out one at a time as she listed what was cooking within. Vex was directing two lower-level recruits as they hauled a cask of ale from the Ratway. “Drop it, and it comes out of your take,” She told them, a malicious smile on her face. “Hurry up, you’ve got four more to go.”

The whole place seemed to have come alive in the hours they were gone. Where before everyone spoke in hushed whispers and shuffled their feet, now there was shouting, joking and staccato steps as people ran this way and that. Additional tables and chairs, some in desperate need of repair, were placed in the tavern. Some of the merchants that had recently opened shop in the cistern added their own contributions; a heavy table on which to place the food, wooden plates and bowls and even scraps of cloth to cover the dirty tables.

“Mistress, ah….” One of the merchants called out to her as he approached, trailing dark red fabric. Miria turned to greet him. “Lady, ah, I mean….”

“Miria,” she offered in an attempt to get him to continue.

“Yes. Lady, er, Mistress Miria,” He held the dress he carried in front of him and pressed it against her body. “This is for you, for the party.”

Miria’s confused expression moved from the man to Brynjolf.

“As leader of the guild, you should stand out from the rest,” the man told her. 

“Doesn’t my fancy new armor do that?” Miria asked, displaying the Nightingale attire she had taken to wearing on a regular basis.

“Of course,” the man told her, but his eyes indicated that he disagreed. “But all the guild wears dark, black armor. You should stand out, assure no one will mistake your position.” As she continued to look warily at the piece he continued. “You are the new leader, many still do not know your face. This way, they will know you on sight.”

Miria turned her unsure look to Brynjolf, but he looked on the garment with appreciation. “It can’t hurt,” he told her, then she noted the mischievous smile on his lips. “I’d like to see you in it.”

“That’s funny,” Miria said as she took the dress from the man. “I’d have thought you’d want to get me out of it.” 

“For that you need to get in it first.”

Miria found a small room to change into the dress, distressed by the rather flimsy fabric as she draped it over her body. It was a rather simple sleeveless garment that hung loosely almost to the floor. Considering the tailor had never taken measurements it fit rather well, having the appearance of something much more refined. Folds of the light fabric fell from her shoulders to her bust line in front and the small of her back behind. It came with no accessories, but she thought her black guild boots and gloves fit it rather well. She flagged down Sapphire to help confine the mess of black hair atop her head and donned a nondescript black beaded necklace before presenting herself to the guild.

She walked into the Flagon to the hoots and hollers of her guildmates. The heavy table was filled with food and many guild members already sat at tables with plates of food and mugs of ale before them.

Miria joined them, happy to see the smiles on their faces. After she had finished her meal a hand on her bare back shocked her. She spun around, catching her breath when she saw that it was only Brynjolf getting her attention.

“A little jumpy tonight?” he asked, a hint of concern in his voice.

“Not really,” she answered. “Just not used to being dressed up, and having my skin out for just anyone to touch.”

Brynjolf laughed at that. “Sure. Well, I’ve a pot of hot water, just took it off the fire, if you’d like to brew your tea.”

As the tea brewed, Miria asked the crowd how many of them knew Fordor. Groans filled the room and several hands were raised.

“So, why exactly is he not welcome here?” she asked.

Shouted explanations, most revolving around his adventurous hands, answered her question. She snickered and shared her own story, resulting in a round of raucous laughter from the crowd. When she explained that she had purchased tea from him, the announcement was met with a mixture of excitement and ambivalence.

“That stuff doesn’t agree with me,” Vex told her. “I think I’ll be sitting this one out.”

“Your choice,” Miria told her. “Maybe next month you can decide what we do.”

“Nex month?” Delvin spoke up, slurring his words so badly they could hardly be understood. “Y’mean, were doin’ zis agin?”

“That’s the plan,” she answered to a round of cheers. “We’ll see how things go tonight.”

After filtering the tea, Brynjolf passed a mug of it to Miria. She took a sip, making a disgusted face when she realized that it tasted nothing like the tea she was used to drinking, then downed the whole thing in one pull. Mugs were passed out to anyone who asked and Miria wound up drinking another, this time one sip at a time, when each person wanted to share a toast with the Guildmaster.

Time stretched and dilated, creating a strange irony where every hour flew by but each second seemed to last an eternity. Miria found herself unable to focus, unable to maintain a single thought for long enough to remember it. Black spots began moving quickly around her and she found herself seeking out the cool, fresh saltwater air outside of the sewers.

Just outside the Ratway, on the dock that ringed the city, she sat with her back against a wall and stared out to the sea. Brynjolf had explained to her that the flying spots, as well as other visual disturbances, were one of the intoxicating effects of the tea and so she didn’t worry about the flocks of creatures she saw flying in the sky. If there were a real danger, she surmised, the guard would be sounding an alarm. As she sat and stared into the darkness the world around her blotted out, replaced by some waking dream that she could not escape.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miria wakes from a vision to find that her carefully separated lives have collided and many are looking for answers.

Miria was looking down on a city; Windhelm, she believed, but there was something off about it. People rushed about, going about their daily chores as if nothing were amiss. She quickly learned that she had no control over the environment and no one appeared to notice her presence, so she resigned herself to observing the scene as it played out. A woman bolted from a small hut to the keep situated in the center of the city and Miria was compelled to follow.

The keep was set up much as it had been the last time she’d been there, just a few days prior, but it was more richly decorated; the tapestries that hung on the walls appeared more vibrant, the tables were set with finer tableware and real silver, even the wooden floors glowed with a golden sheen. Miria wondered for a second if she was seeing the future or the past. A high pitched cry from a back room caught her attention and she noted the woman she was following run in that direction.

Another woman was giving birth and the episode passed in an instant. Soon a strapping young boy, a fine addition to any family, was roaming the halls of the keep. Miria saw his mother and father as they cared for the boy, saw brothers and a sister born in the same room. The mother died birthing the third boy and the bittersweet day was celebrated by all. The eldest grew from boy to young man and was finally allowed to accompany his father on a business trip.

The father argued with a neighbor about a plot of land, necessary for farmland to feed the people of the city; owned by neither but traditionally used by all. Angry shouts were exchanged, fists pounded on tables and boots stomped the ground, but by the time the negotiations were completed the men were laughing, sharing a drink and clasping hands.

That was when Miria heard the name Stormcloak and recognized the boy as Ulfric. So she was seeing the past, she realized, but the purpose of the vision was still beyond her. She remembered Brynjolf telling her that the herb was used to speak with the Gods and laughed; it was little comfort knowing the Gods could speak with such clarity considering how seldom they chose to do so. She watched as Ulfric continued to grow into an arrogant man, well aware of his status and willing to flaunt it to get what he wanted. He surrounded himself with a gang of toughs and left a string of jilted maidens behind him, deemed unworthy after he’d had his fun with them.

The atmosphere of the city changed. Shadows crept over the streets as they fell into disrepair and garbage began piling up. Much of the finery in the keep was sold for money to pay the guard and beggars cried at the door. Imperial soldiers appeared at the gate and Ulfric lost his youngest brother in the brief battle for control. His father, bent in old age and mourning the loss of a child, surrendered. He was allowed to maintain his position as Jarl of Windhelm so long as he cowed to Imperial control, sending troops and taxes as demanded, but the city was no longer the shining beacon it had once been. 

The shadow that encompassed the city made its way into the hearts of its inhabitants. The people turned cold and hard in their dealings with each other. The Grey Quarter turned from a sanctuary to a prison and the elves were expected to remain there, harassed by guard and townsfolk alike whenever they were seen outside of their domain. Those of a particularly unpleasant nature took their harassment to the Grey Quarter, removing what little peace the elves knew.

Long before his father succumbed to the illness that swept the city some winters later, Ulfric had begun his rebellion. In dark corners and harsh whispers men traded information about Imperial troop movements, command structures and the perceived loyalty of the neighboring Jarls. It was learned that the Thalmor held the reigns of their Imperial lapdogs and Ulfric lost what little concern he held for his own elven citizens. “Skyrim for the Nords!” became the rallying cry of the rebellion, further straining relations between the various inhabitants of the city.

Blood and death soon took over every part of Ulfric’s life. He killed High King Torygg for his betrayal of the Nords, claiming the man’s position for himself. He killed to protect his comrades, avenge his brother and relieve the rage that had taken over his soul. The men around him died one by one in the battles that followed. Miria saw the camp that she had crawled into so long ago, where she had been captured with Ulfric and sentenced to death for the crime of being found in his presence.

Without warning Ulfric’s eyes focused on her. His mouth opened, an unholy keen issuing from it, and he rushed her and wrapped his huge hands around her neck. She tried telling him who she was, tried using the Voice to force him away from her, but the vise grip on her throat would not allow it. She clawed at the fingers, fought to draw air into her lungs, kicked and swung at the man before her.

*****

Someone was speaking near Miria as she fought the hands that grasped her, but the strain in the voice obscured what was said. “By the Gods!” the man shouted, and the noise broke Miria from her vision. She bolted upright on her bed, reaching for her throat and forcefully drawing air into her lungs.

“Finally,” Brynjolf exclaimed, turning his back to Miria and walking through a door into the next room. Iona offered her a cup of mead and Vigilance jumped onto the bed, lying across her lap. She accepted the mug gratefully and rested a hand on the dog’s head. She looked around her small home, cursing the fact that the residence was no longer hidden from the Guild; if it ever truly was.

Brynjolf walked back into the room and Miria noted the scrapes and black eye that had not been there previously. The hard look he gave her told her that he had paced the same stretch of floor for many hours. Iona watched him warily, unsure about the man who had brought her mistress home unconscious and unable to be roused. Brynjolf ignored the housecarl, turned his back again and continued pacing the floor.

“What time is it?” Miria asked Iona when she noted daylight had replaced the dark of night. Her eyes remained on Brynjolf, met his furious gaze every time he walked back into the room, as she spoke.

“A bit past full sun,” the housecarl answered. “I have stew prepared, if you’re hungry.”

“He hasn’t been too difficult, I trust?”

“Not at all,” the woman answered, the lie obvious in her tone. “Concerned for you, as we all are.”

“All?” Miria mouthed the word, wondering at its significance. “I’ll take a bowl of that stew, thank you, and bring one for Brynjolf also.”

Iona nodded and left her side, walking to the hearth and the pot that hung over the fire there.

Brynjolf again made his way into the room, this time stopping in front of Miria’s bed and staring angrily at her. Finally he pointed a finger at her and opened his mouth and Miria prepared to defend herself against whatever accusations came, but before he could speak a word the rear door burst open and three soldiers wearing Stormcloak armor entered. Brynjolf sneered at them, setting his feet and holding his hands behind his back to demonstrate his intention to avoid a fight.

“Jarl Ulfric demands an audience,” one of the soldiers told her, a fearful look in his eyes. The other two situated themselves in the room to assure she could not escape.

Miria’s eyes went wide and she looked from Brynjolf to the soldiers. She realized how precarious her situation was, either side could decide she’d been disloyal and mete out punishment, but she had nowhere to run to. She cursed the flimsy red fabric she still wore and wished she could fetch her armor and weapons from the sewer as she extricated herself from beneath the large hound and stood next to the bed.

Vigilance, sensing the tension in the room, rose and stood next to her. She dropped a hand to his head and was grateful for his presence as she exited through the door and followed the soldier, the others following closely behind, to a campsite not far out of town.

The site was set up so that four long tents encircled a smaller one. Soldiers milled about, watching as she was led to the central tent. She recognized a few of the faces and expected cheerful greetings, but the soldiers kept their distance and whispered to each other, a haunted look on their faces. The tent was devoid of any furnishings, a simple affair of canvas propped up by a wooden frame.

Miria was left in the tent with just Vigilance to keep her company for many long minutes. She absentmindedly caressed the dog as she mentally reviewed her current predicament, wondering how she had ended up here in the first place. Why was Ulfric in Riften; how did he know she was here and for what reason did he come for her? Did he know of her involvement with the Guild or was it just dumb luck that he had tracked her down at Honeyside while she was there? 

Then there was the question of how she had gotten to Honeyside. What had happened the night before, at the party she had thrown for her guildmates, and how much of her situation did Brynjolf know; how much did the rest of the guild know? And that vision – she hadn’t sought it out but she doubted the intense dream was anything less. What did it mean? What knowledge were the Gods trying to convey to her?

Ulfric walked into the tent alone, looking disheveled and exhausted. His eyes held the same fury she had seen in Brynjolf’s and she suddenly felt very alone in the world. She fought the urge to drop her eyes to the ground, to admit any wrongdoing on her part, set her jaw and met his gaze squarely.

“What, exactly, is going on?” Ulfric asked, his voice low and even. Miria waited for him to elaborate; after all, she had no idea which potential concern he was asking about; but he stood in silence.

“Going on?” Miria prompted.

His lips turned up in a snarl and he lunged toward her, grabbing her arm and pulling her close roughly. Vigilance growled and Miria dropped a hand on his head to silence him, not taking her eyes from the Jarl’s.

“I was overtaken,” he explained, shooting a look over his shoulder to assure they remained alone. “One minute I was in my tent, turning in for the night. The next I was floating above some farmstead, unable to speak or escape, watching….”

His voice trailed off and horror gripped Miria’s heart as she realized that she hadn’t been the only one to experience a vision that night. He knew everything; her association with the Guild, the murder of Grelod, her nighttime foray into his keep pilfering valuables. She began to tremble as she imagined him seeing her family killed, watching the years she had spent as a plaything traded among Imperial officers. Her breathing quickened and her heart pounded in her ears.

Vigilance began growling again and Ulfric released her arm and took a step back, recognizing the panic that had come over her. Miria turned to escape the tent but realized that Ulfric stood between her and the exit and turned back, taking several steps out of the man’s reach. Ulfric’s rage began to dissipate when he realized that she had had no part in causing his vision. He looked older as exhaustion wiped the last of the anger away.

“What do you know,” he finally said, his lips pressed together in a tight line as he turned away from her. He glanced over his shoulder before exiting the tent. “Your father is a true Nord.”

Miria was left alone again, shocked and scared and completely ill-prepared for where her life had taken her. She stood in the center of the tent and considered her next move. Did she need to escape?

Her question was answered a second later when Ulfric returned. “I trust you can make your own way back.” he told her. The canvas of the tent split where he had entered and was pulled back over the wooden frame. Miria stood, silent, not believing that she would be allowed to leave without some punishment. She flinched when Ulfric took a step toward her, looking over what she wore as if he’d just then noticed she was out of her armor. He gripped her arm, more gently this time, and pulled her close. “We’ll be waiting for you on the battle field,” he mumbled before releasing her and stalking away.

Miria noted that the other tents had already been taken down, packed onto the horses that had brought them. Most of the soldiers were standing with the horses, ready to move out when the Jarl ordered. Miria didn’t wait for the order; she hiked up the front of the dress and bolted in the direction of Honeyside.

She flew up the back stair and to the door and hesitated. She’d left Brynjolf in there, angry with her and expecting some sort of explanation. She considered turning and finding somewhere else to hide out, but the door opened in front of her.

“Ready to talk?” Brynjolf asked, arms crossed in front of him.

Miria put a hand on his chest and took a deep breath. Every fiber of her being screamed out to her to run, but she denied the impulse. She needed to stop running and take a stand at some point in her life. No longer a slave, well trained in combat and The Way of the Voice, and her secrets laid bare with none left to keep; now seemed the time to do it.

Brynjolf stepped out of her way and she entered the room. Iona stood in the front room, her own look indicating that she was not too happy, and so Miria sat at the small table and gestured for Brynjolf to sit across from her.

“Iona,” Miria began, “the stew, if you don’t mind.”

She forced her breath in and out slowly, trying desperately to slow the beating of her heart. When two bowls of stew were on the table and Iona was sitting with her own to one side, she finally spoke.

“I need a start point,” she told Brynjolf. “What exactly happened last night after I left the party?”

Brynjolf’s face took on a look of confusion. “Well, I found you sitting on the docks, already blind to the world. I wasn’t sure what was wrong and didn’t want the guild to see you, so I brought you back here. Whoever was following us last night must have also known of the house, because there were four men, wearing that same armor,” he nodded to the back door where the Stormcloaks had entered, “waiting outside.

“There was a little scuffle. Iona here came out and got involved, and eventually everyone figured out that no one was here to hurt you. We got you into bed, Iona would agree to only one person sticking around and I refused to leave.”

Miria ate as she took it all in. It was really a rather humorous story, considering no one was seriously injured. She practiced her story in her mind, wondering how much detail she should include, what he would consider important. Brynjolf was visibly agitated by the time Miria began talking.

“Well, remember when I told you about that time I was about to be put to death, alongside Ulfric Stormcloak and a bunch of rebels?” she began. No need to fill in anything before that, she figured, since that was really where her story began. Before that she had merely played roles in the stories of others, following the lead of whoever had control.

She told him her story, concentrating specifically on her contact with the Stormcloaks. He already knew the part about the guild, and she had already told him of the Greybeards and the whole Dragonborn thing. She told him where all she’d visited, although didn’t bother elaborating what she did during her visits and left out the locations of her other residences.

“So what do you plan to do now?” Brynjolf asked when she finished her story. 

“I’m going to join the rebellion,” she answered. “I have to run all over creation and back killing dragons anyway, and they’re just as interested in getting rid of them as anyone else. This way I have allies close by. I don’t plan on giving up the guild, although I’ll probably leave you to run the day-to-day.”

He waited to hear more and when nothing else was said dropped his chin to his chest and gave her a rueful smile. “No complaints. Just so long as there’re no more secrets.”

“Ah,” Miria began to argue. She was silent for a second before offering a compromise. “I’ll keep you apprised of the big stuff, anything that may come back to the guild, but I’m not telling you everything.”

Brynjolf didn’t look happy about it, but he couldn’t argue. “Yeah. I guess I wouldn’t agree to that either.”

“If you don’t mind,” Miria stood and handed her emptied bowl to Iona. “I’d like to keep Honeyside secret. It’s nice having a place to run to when I want to be alone.”

Brynjolf nodded his acquiescence and handed his own bowl over.

“And now I need to go make a similar report,” Miria continued, wondering what more she could say to the man who had watched her life play out before him.

“Well,” Brynjolf offered, “we can only hope they like you as much as I do.”

She gave him a sarcastic smile and showed him to the door. “I’ll stop down for my armor before I leave town,” she told him. “And let everyone else know I’m still alive.”

After Brynjolf left she turned to Iona. “I am truly sorry about all of this. I thought Honeyside would remain outside of all… that.”

“Well, thank you for keeping the rest of the guild out.” The housecarl offered in forgiveness. “And please continue to try to keep me out of all… that.” She gave Miria a friendly smile.

Miria agreed and left the house, stopping at the guild as she had promised. She picked up another job in Windhelm, this one at a private residence in the city rather than the keep, and was soon riding out of town.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facing the High King and his very angry advisors.

The trip to Windhelm took Miria nearly twice as long as any other. She continuously second-guessed her decision, stopping early at night and leaving rather late in the morning as she went over her choices in her mind. She briefly considered joining one of the groups of bandits that she knew lived along the road but dismissed the thought quickly. The course she had chosen for her life would not be easy, but easy was not her ultimate goal. Adventurous, meaningful and connected were what she wished to achieve in life, and she believed her current course was the best avenue to those goals.

When she finally got to Windhelm, just before dusk, she rented a room at Candlehearth Hall. She wasn’t entirely sure the Jarl wanted to speak with her and hadn’t been invited. Considering Ulfric was now aware of her robbery of the keep, she was hesitant to enter it. She didn’t hide her presence in town, however, sure that he had ordered the guard to inform him if she arrived. She had just paid for a room and a meal when he walked in the front door, accompanied by Ralof and Galmar. Miria’s heart skipped a beat when she saw them enter, but she pushed the panic away. This is exactly what she had expected, she reminded herself. The group chose a booth in a far corner, waving her over to join them.

She slung her pack over her shoulder and picked up her plate and mug, then suggested to the bartender that the table could use a waitress. Ralof and Ulfric were sitting on one side of the table when she arrived. Galmar, broad even for a Nord, gestured for her to take the inside seat of the remaining bench, across from Ulfric and leaving her trapped in the corner should the group turn on her. She took a deep breath and graciously accepted.

The waitress arrived at the table just as Galmar took his seat. Without looking up and in a tired tone, she rattled off the meal that was being served that night.

“A round of ale,” Ralof told her.

The waitress looked up to count the patrons at the table and her gaze stuck on Ulfric. “Jarl,” she stammered. “I.… Of course drinks are on the house.”

“Good,” Miria interrupted. “Then bring me brandy.” She smiled at the hard look Ulfric gave her and again pushed down the apprehension that threatened to overwhelm her. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Miria ate while the group waited for their drinks, ignoring the stares of her companions. When the waitress delivered their drinks; three additional ales, a bottle of brandy and four small glasses; Miria handed what remained of the meal to her. “See that we’re not interrupted,” she told the woman, who nodded and scurried away quickly.

Miria took two shots of the brandy and was pouring a third when Ulfric snatched the bottle from her hand.

“What did you see?” he asked her, his voice tight.

Miria raised a shocked look to him. She hoped he hadn’t put enough together yet to know she had also seen a vision. She downed the last shot and returned the glass to the table.

“The way you reacted when I talked to you,” Ulfric explained to her when he noted her hesitation. “It was hard to miss.”

Miria took a deep breath before responding. “I imagine I saw the same thing you did.” She looked at Ralof and Galmar, unsure what all they knew of the situation. “In reverse, I guess.”

“Don’t worry about them,” Ulfric assured her. “They’re loyal.”

Miria shrugged her shoulders and sighed heavily. “Your life,” She told him. “Your birth, your childhood, you planning the rebellion while your father still lived and following through with it after his death.”

“Wait,” Ralof interrupted. “So if she saw… that means your vision,” he turned to Ulfric, “was her life? That’s what you saw?”

Ulfric nodded and Miria dropped her eyes to the table.

“Well, what does that mean?” Ralof added after a short silence.

“Maybe the dragons and the rebellion are connected?” Galmar suggested. “Ulfric is meant to be king?”

Miria raised her eyebrows and looked at the man as a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “What exactly do you know of your king?” Her eyes flitted to Ulfric and she tamed her growing smile. “I mean, there wasn’t anything obvious about it. Just the life of a man who wanted things to change.”

“Maybe it’s the Imperials, or the Thalmor holding their leashes, that woke the dragons,” Ralof offered. “If you’re supposed to stop the dragons, maybe aiding the rebellion is a part of that.”

Miria shrugged her shoulders. “Possibly,” she agreed. “But it didn’t feel like it was urging me one way or the other.” As the alcohol she had already consumed began to warm her body and cloud her mind, she set her glass in the center of the table to indicate she wanted more. “Or maybe the drugs were really just that good.”

Ulfric was filling all four glasses when his eyes met hers. “Drugs?”

“Well, we were throwing a party.” She explained, the alcohol loosing her tongue more than she intended. “Brynjolf told me of this tea that ancient warriors used to drink and I thought, why not?” She tipped her glass back and drained it as the others did the same. “Pretty good drug; not at all what I expected.”

“How would that effect Ulfric?” Galmar asked.

Miria shrugged her shoulders again. “Tea of the Gods?” she asked, a laugh in her voice. “Who knows what they want, why they do what they do, or if the drug even had anything to do with it. And if you get any kind of an answer from them, please let me know.”

Ralof sat back in his seat. “Well, maybe there was something in the visions that is supposed to convey some sort of message but it requires you both to figure out. Is there anything that really seemed to stand out?”

“Nothing,” Miria answered. “Except the stark difference in our upbringing; he raised as the eldest son of a jarl, me as the youngest mixed-breed daughter of a farmer. The differences weren’t a surprise, though, it… most of it is expected and accepted.”

“Did you see anything at all,” Ralof asked, “a face or a name, maybe a location that you recognized? Anything that made you stop for even a second and ask if it was right?” He looked from Miria to Ulfric, waiting for a response from either of them.

Miria looked down at her glass as she went over the vision in her mind. The memories were like she had experienced them herself; many were obscured by decades of time. “I remember seeing everything,” she finally told him, “but now it’s all fuzzy. I wonder how accurate they really were.”

Ulfric took on a contemplative look and nodded toward Miria. “Unless you’ve moved it in the past day, the jade dragon is in the pouch hidden in your left boot.”

Miria blanched, the panic from earlier gripped her heart and held it still for several seconds. When it began beating again she was able to draw a breath and retrieve the hidden pouch. She locked eyes with Ulfric, opened the pouch and placed the jade dragon in the center of the table.

“Wait, isn’t that from….” Galmar began.

“You robbed the keep?” Ralof interrupted him.

“Traitor!” Galmar yelled as he jumped to his feet and closed his hand around the pommel of his sword. Many eyes in the tavern turned their way, but no one interrupted.

Miria turned her eyes to Galmar and adjusted in her seat to more fully face him.

“She took nothing but trinkets,” Ralof contended as he placed a hand on Galmar’s sword arm and rose to his feet next to the man. “That doesn’t make her a traitor.”

“But she stole from the keep; from the High King himself,” Galmar argued. “She’s supposed to be fighting with us and she’s stealing from us. She’s probably an Imperial, sent to spy on us and sabotage our….”

Miria snarled at him. “To Hell with the Imperials,” She spat. “I would never do anything to aid them.”

“If she was an Imperial spy, don’t you think Ulfric would have seen it in his vision?” Ralof asked. 

“If she sent him the vision,” Galmar reasoned. “She could have….”

“No, I was there that day in Helgen. Her head was on the block when the dragon attacked.”

Ulfric raised a hand to silence the argument. He fiddled with the jade dragon but his eyes held a far-away look. “So the visions are accurate,” he said, “but what does it mean?”

“Would the Greybeards have an answer?” Miria turned her eyes back to Ulfric, who made a face at the suggestion. “Or the Blades, or maybe there’s information at the mage or bard school.”

Ulfric ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “It’s late; there’s nothing more we can do now.” He eyes focused on Miria. “I’d feel better if you stayed at the keep tonight,” He told her, then to Galmar’s shocked gasp, “under guard, of course. Don’t want you sneaking around.”

“Then you should keep her in the dungeon,” Galmar suggested.

Ulfric gave him a withering look which seemed to knock him down a few pegs. “She is still our ally in this war,” he told the man as he rose to his feet and exited the booth. All three men turned to stare at Miria as she continued to sit in the corner.

“Can I at least have the rest of the brandy?” she asked, pointing to the bottle that Ulfric held.

Ulfric nodded once and held the bottle in front of him. Miria smiled, exited the booth and took it. “You can hold on to this, too,” Ulfric told her as he handed her the jade dragon he still held. Miria smiled when she took it and slipped it into a pouch. The rest of the tavern patrons watched as Ulfric led her out of the tavern, Ralof and Galmar flanking her on either side. She took a long pull from the bottle as she walked, feeling much more like a prisoner than an ally.

Miria was led to one of the guest rooms at the keep and four soldiers were ordered to keep guard at her door. She waved the others off as she made her way into the room, annoyance, exhaustion and drunkenness making speech too difficult to manage. At this point anything she had to say would likely get her in trouble, she assumed, and a laugh escaped her. She set the half-full bottle and jade dragon on a small table to one side of the room and fell into the bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miria makes a sad excuse for a soldier

Miria woke to a drum pounding in her head, followed by the echo of Galmar’s harsh voice. “Get up, Soldier!” When she turned to look at him he was standing above her, holding her bottle up to the light and looking at it in disgust. He set it back on the table with a thud. “You’ve already missed breakfast and if you aren’t in the yard with the rest of the troops in 5 minutes you’ll find yourself digging latrines!”

Miria had trained with the troops before, had fought minor skirmishes at their side, but she had never officially joined their ranks and so had been free to come and go as she pleased. She never pretended that she would make a good soldier and since escaping captivity, and then the headsman’s axe, had done everything in her power to avoid being caught under another’s control.

“Five minutes,” he repeated, “geared up and ready to train!” He left then, and the report of the door slamming pounded in Miria’s head before blackness closed over her again.

The next time she woke she was airborne, the world spinning around her. She landed hard on the stone floor and the mattress and bedding landed atop her. Miria sprang to her feet as Galmar’s voice again echoed in her head. “Get up!” She squared her shoulders and advanced on him, but before she reached him a bucket of cold water was thrown on her.

“I want this room cleaned and you ready to train.” His voice had turned low and menacing and he met Miria’s stare with his own. “I’ll have Ulfric send you away if you refuse, missing a hand as payment for your theft.”

The threat sobered Miria and she looked away, just then noticing that he had come with reinforcements this time. The two other soldiers stood near the door, their eyes showing a hint of fear.

“Do you understand?” Galmar asked her after several seconds.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, mimicking the response most commonly heard among the ranks.

Her acquiescence seemed to shock him for a moment, but a hateful smile soon spread across his face. He turned without another word and left the room, the two others following close behind.

Miria returned the mattress to the bed and placed the bedding, now wet, on the floor next to the door. Donning her Stormcloak armor she left the keep and joined the mass of soldiers that were gathered outside the city walls, the guards who still stood at her door following a respectable distance behind.

The soldiers in the yard were separated into three large groups, each performing different tasks. Miria joined with the closest, stepping into line at one end, but was immediately called out.

“You want to train with the rest of the troops,” Galmar shouted from behind her, shocking her with his proximity, “then you’ll be waking with the troops. Until then….” He handed her a shovel and a bucket and pointed to where Miria knew the soldiers had been relieving themselves. “Fill in the old holes and dig new ones.”

She took the shovel and bucket without complaint and walked to where Galmar had indicated. There were four deep holes dug, spaced a few feet from each other and all currently in use. She wondered where she should dig the new holes; if this was the first time they had been re-dug or if there was a deep mess just waiting for her to hit it elsewhere.

Ralof rushed by her as she stared and relieved himself. When he turned back, after assuring that Galmar was not near, he nodded his head to where she should begin. He stood next to her as he re-buckled his trousers. “East to West, with the sun. Makes it easy to remember.” He then rushed off without any indication they’d spoken.

She began digging several feet from where the western-most hole was located. The ground was hard and full of rocks and, despite the winter wind that blew, Miria soon found herself slick with sweat. When she had dug down several feet, far enough based on the depth of the others, she began moving the soil and rocks to the eastern-most hole to fill it in. 

She repeated the process three times, expecting at any minute that someone would come to relieve her. The relief never came, however, even when the soldiers guarding her received theirs. The army ate their midday meal in a long tent set against the city wall in three shifts as she dug the second and continued with their training as she dug the third and fourth. Hot, covered in blisters and smelling of raw sweat and sewage, she carried the bucket and shovel to Galmar.

“Finally done?” he asked her, looking to where soldiers now relieved themselves in the newly dug holes. He then leaned away and gave her a disgusted look. “You stink to the heavens. Wash yourself before you report in.” When she dropped the shovel and bucket and began walking away he called her back. “These don’t belong here! Take them with you!”

She carried the tools to a trough set to one side of the meal tent. Broken ice floated in the cloudy water and Miria fell to her knees in front of it, dipping her hands into the frigid water and rubbing the dirt and grime from them. She splashed water onto her face and the shock caused her breath to catch in her throat, waking her from the hangover and hunger inspired fog she’d been wading in.

“Ugh,” a soldier exclaimed as a small group walked by her. “I can’t believe Ulfric even lets her fight with us, dirty Redguard.”

A spark of anger ignited in her belly but was quickly extinguished. Miria tried to rise to her feet but her movements were sluggish. She gripped the side of the trough and pushed herself to a standing position.

“She still smells,” another voice said behind her. “She needs a bath.” Before she was able to turn she was pushed into the trough, falling onto her back in the freezing water and wrenching her knee in the fall.

Soldiers circled her and laughed as she sputtered, sitting up from the water. She pulled herself to the edge and fell onto the snow as the trough overturned.

“Little piggy needs a bath,” one voice said from her right. From her left another spoke up. “You’re going to need more than that.”

“What is this?” Galmar’s voice cried over the commotion, silencing the soldiers. Miria fought to her feet, used the shovel as a crutch when she nearly toppled over. She lifted her head when she was standing and fought the shivers that threatened. She stood tall when she faced Galmar, waiting to hear the punishment for this most recent mistake.

His face was red and Miria wouldn’t have been surprised to see flames shoot from his eyes. “Clean this up!” he screamed. “Refill the water!” 

Miria turned and reached down for the trough but Galmar grabbed her arm and pulled her away roughly. “Not you,” he told her and shoved her to a soldier standing at his side. “Take her to the tent, see that she eats.” He turned back to those who had congregated around the trough and continued his screaming rant as Miria was led away.

“Not having a good first day?” Ralof asked her in jest as he matched her step and waved the other soldier away. Miria cast him a withering look which only caused him to laugh. “I didn’t have a very good first day either. Didn’t end up in the washing trough, but it wasn’t a good day.”

She sat at a table in the front, nearest the cooking fires. A bowl of soup, little more than broth with a couple morsels of vegetable, was set before her. Not even bothering with a spoon, Miria lifted the bowl to her lips and drank the warm liquid. The heat triggered her shivers and she was soon shaking uncontrollably.

“I never wanted to be a soldier,” Miria said, teeth chattering as she spoke. “Didn’t ask to be Dragonborn or an Imperial prisoner.” A thick cloth was thrown over her shoulders and she pulled it tight about her as the soup was refilled.

“We don’t get to choose our lives,” Ralof said to her, a sober tone to his voice. “If we could, I’d be living in Helgen with Vilod and a passel of little ‘uns underfoot.”

Miria turned a sad smile to him. She remembered the story he told of Vilod on the day they met, before she even knew his name. She ate the second bowl of soup more slowly, huddled against the cold and the animosity of the world.

“I don’t even know…” she began, thinking of the plans she had made as a child. “At one point I was going to marry Ulfric. Daddy looked so proud when I told him I would be Queen.”

“Reach for the stars, I guess,” Ralof said to her. “How old were you?”

Galmar walked into the tent as they spoke. “Old enough to know better,” Miria answered the question as they both stood. “The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

Galmar fixed a pointed stare at Ralof and watched him as he exited the tent. He then stood before Miria with a look of distaste. “I guess you can finish out your night here,” he said, motioning to the cooking fires. “I’m sure the cook could use some help.”

Miria couldn’t tell if the assignment was a punishment or a mercy. “Yes, sir,” she told him, nodding her head slightly in deference, and she turned and limped to the cook for whatever orders he had for her.

She cut vegetables until the knife raised blisters on the blisters on her hands and was ordered to clean the mess tent after the meal was served before she was allowed to eat. Her clothing dried slowly and once again the work caused her to sweat. The first solid food she’d eaten all day, the simple stew tasted like ambrosia when she finally got a chance to eat it. 

Ralof entreated Miria to sit with him at a fire afterward, but between the animosity of the other soldiers and her own exhaustion, she turned him down. When she returned to her room the bundle of wet bedding she’d left near the door hadn’t been touched. Unable to summon even the strength to care about that, she shook the driest of the pieces over the mattress and wrapped it around her, asleep within seconds of lying down.

The next day went somewhat better, considering her guards that morning had the grace to wake her before Galmar had to. Not early enough for breakfast, since they ate before they relieved the guards before them, so Miria stood on the field hungry, sore and barely able to hold a sword with the blisters on her hand. She gritted her teeth and fought through the pain, not willing to give any of the men fodder to sling at her later.

When they broke for the midday meal Miria was first in line at the tent. She took her meal – mashed roots and a hunk of bread with some sort of meat and gravy concoction poured over the top – to a bench outside the kitchen exit of the tent. She ate quickly and was back in the tent returning her utensils when she next encountered Galmar, red-faced and spitting angry.

“Where in the hells did you disappear off to?” They stood to one side of the tent and the soldiers who had been heading to the exit turned to go the other way.

“Eating,” Miria answered, a little perplexed at the question.

“You are to eat in the tent, with the rest of the soldiers!” The muscles of his mouth worked as they stood facing each other, as if he was unable to speak the words he was thinking. “I need to know where you are; to be able to find you at any time!”

Miria stood silent for a moment, waiting for him to share whatever information was so important that he had to find her. When three soldiers walked into the tent from the entrance behind her, all carrying utensils from the meal they’d eaten elsewhere, a self-satisfied smile spread across her face. With a good night’s sleep behind her and a full stomach, she was feeling more like herself and it was a real effort not to call him out. His eyes flitted to the soldiers and then to Miria’s growing smile. He huffed, turned and stalked away.

She was stretching her sore muscles in the yard, waiting for afternoon training to start, when Ralof joined her. “What did you do to that man?” he asked, then to her look of confusion, “Galmar; I was in a meeting with Ulfric. In he comes, in a rage over something, ranting about how he can’t believe Ulfric doesn’t have you put to death, let alone allows you to sleep in a room in his keep.”

Miria snorted. “I’m starting to think the man just doesn’t like me.”

“Well that’s a given, but what did you do?” He looked back to the keep that towered over the city wall. “Ulfric kept asking, but he was too worked up to answer.”

“He is upset because I ate somewhere other than the tent.” Ralof turned and stared at her, waiting for further explanation. “He insisted that soldiers were not allowed; until he realized there were soldiers eating outside at that very moment.”

“I… He…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he’s being so….”

“Pig-headed?” Miria supplied for him.

“That too, but no….”

“Stubborn, combative, hostile?”

“All that and more.” Ralof turned a knowing smile on her. “Maybe you shouldn’t have robbed the keep, the war room even, the eve of a war meeting.”

“I’m sure that doesn’t help,” Miria admitted. “Maybe if I robbed the Imperial war room, do you think that’ll ease his worry any?”

Ralof sputtered in laughter. “And what would you bring him, as proof of your deed?”

Miria considered the question. “Something from the map. I wonder if they just have the pins and flags like ours. They’ve probably got a wolf for Ulfric.”

“Do you think they used a dragon for you, like the jade one?”

Miria laughed. “Who knows. No, if I’m trying to impress Galmar I’ve got to bring the thing that symbolizes him best. Donkey?”

Ralof covered his laugh.

“Then again, he’ll claim I’m working for them and its all part of the ruse.”

They continued with their training that afternoon, Miria feeling much better than she had for the previous several. Ralof again invited her to sit at a fire with a group of soldiers, but Miria got the impression the others were not interested. She begged off, explaining that she still needed to clean and dry her bedding, and spent the evening in her room.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The preceding calm

The week dragged by for Miria. While she continued to work and train as she had before, Galmar wore his newfound distrust of her like a badge, infecting the rest of the soldiers. He spoke to her as if she were some interloper and assigned her the dirtiest and most demeaning assignments, which she completed without complaint. Ralof assured her that the animosity would pass but she noted that even he spent less time with her, forced to choose between her and the rest of the soldiers. Miria found herself retiring earlier and earlier each night; a bottle, a bed and the guards outside her door, reduced to two on Ulfric’s insistence, her only companions.

The morning before they were scheduled to move out, the soldiers were released from their duties early as commanders and advisers, the latter of which she had been labeled, met in the keep one final time. Miria’s role would be with the scouts, locating Imperial camps in the mountains and relaying the information to the bulk of the army. They would also clear out the dragon rumored to be in the area – a task Miria was particularly suited for. She leaned against a wall near the door and remained silent throughout the briefing, a fact not missed by any in attendance.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Galmar sneered when her role was mentioned. Miria set her jaw as eyes turned to regard her, Galmar’s distrust infecting the congregation. “Is it possible that for once you have nothing to say?”

“Her role has changed little in the planning,” Ulfric noted without bothering to look at either of them. Without waiting for a response he pointed to a spot on the map and turned to another of his commanders. “Are we sure that the troops stationed near the rift will be ready? Has there been any word since they took the field?”

“A runner came in this morning,” the man answered. Miria didn’t recognize him, but there were many faces gathered that she did not know. She briefly wondered how many of their predecessors feasted in Sovngarde. “They await your orders.”

Galmar abandoned his attack on her and turned back to the table. Miria’s role was not mentioned again, nor was any hint that she would not perform it. When the meeting was concluded she was the first to slip out of the room.

She noted the absence of her guards in the hall and took advantage of the oversight, retrieving a bottle from her room and seeking out a private refuge for the evening. Picking the lock on the door of one of the better as-yet unoccupied guest rooms proved effortless. Miria closed the door on the rest of the keep and walked out onto the balcony there.

The wind whipped snow around her and she instantly regretted not bringing a blanket or coat to guard against the cold, but rather than fetching one she hunkered down and opened her bottle; the wall offered some protection and she expected the alcohol to contribute greatly. She tilted the bottle back and liquid fire poured down her throat and settled in her core.

The action below the balcony was frantic; couriers came and went, supplies being received or sent away in carts created a veritable train stretching from the city gates to the keep. Even the common citizens of the city worked with an extra spring in their step, understanding that the war to come, win or lose, would change Skyrim forever and it was beginning here and now.

It wasn’t long before Miria heard Galmar’s voice shouting from below, the staccato sound revealing his anger. Her hiding spot would be discovered soon, she didn’t doubt, and so she decided to make the best of her remaining peace. She tilted the bottle back and drank again, allowing a large portion of the liquid to pour down her throat. She reveled in the warmth that slowly spread through her body and adjusted to a more comfortable position.

Two small birds hopped to the edge of the balcony and huddled together against the cold, fluffed up until their separate forms could not be made out. “What are you doing out here?” Miria asked them, imagining that their presence foretold the end of the long winter. Her voice caused one to start and flit away, only to return to its mate a second later. It chirruped once and buried its beak in the snow, moving its head from side to side and leaving a small hole in its wake.

She opened a pouch and pulled out a small portion of dried meat. Squirreling away food had served her well after she was captured by the Imperials and she found the habit difficult to quit. She tore the meat into tiny morsels and tossed them to the birds, which smoothed their feathers and hopped forward in anticipation of the free meal.

Miria had fed them nearly half of the meat when suddenly both took to the air, startled by some sound she could not hear. A second later the door next to her opened. She steeled herself for Galmar’s harsh voice, for barked orders or threats of punishment, and was surprised to hear Ulfric instead.

“Galmar searches for you,” he said, the obvious amusement in his voice tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He is convinced you are away to the Imperials to inform them of our plans.”

Miria didn’t bother to deny the accusation and instead tipped the bottle back again, draining the last of its contents. The warmth chased away the last of the chill in her body and her muscles relaxed. The silence stretched and Ulfric shifted his stance, his feet moving nervously.

“Are you prepared?” He asked, a note of hesitancy in his voice. “We are leaving at dawn; there won’t be time to….” His voice trailed off as Miria turned a condescending stare on him. Under his breath he added, “Of course you’re ready.”

After several more seconds of silence he crossed his arms and spoke again, this time with surety. “Galmar is a good man.” When Miria looked up to him he was looking out to the mountains in the distance. “Overly cautious, yes, but a good and fair man. Your dishonesty has shaken his trust in you. With war at hand, and with my insistence that you remain with the Stormcloaks, he finds himself testing your loyalty more severely than he would otherwise.”

Miria heard the words but paid them little heed, regarding them as little more than interruptions in her moment of peace. She stood and took two short steps to the edge of the balcony, away from the relative protection of the wall, placed her hands on the ledge and leaned forward. She closed her eyes as the cold wind messed her hair and caressed her skin. In one long stride Ulfric was at her side and she swore she could feel heat radiating from him. Miria stole a look behind them and noted the open door into the room, as well as the open door from the room into the hall beyond, forestalling any rumor or accusation of impropriety.

“I have little doubt that you will shortly put his concerns to rest,” Ulfric continued. “The trinkets will be inconsequential even to him in the face of the war to come.”

Miria took a deep breath and stood tall. She was by no means a short woman, but standing next to the tall Nord had always made her feel like one. She imagined for a moment that there were no dragons and no war; that she and Ulfric were just a man and a woman looking out together over the vast horizon of Skyrim. She imagined his hand on her shoulder; his embrace shielding her from the wind. With a twitch her hand brushed his and she turned red-rimmed eyes to him.

“Miria, I…” he began, shaking his head in denial.

He had always been careful to address her as Dragonborn or Soldier both in public and private. Hearing her name on his lips nearly undid Miria and she turned back to the horizon, wiping away the few tears that escaped.

“You found her,” Galmar called from behind, his heavy footsteps tromping toward them. 

“I did,” Ulfric answered the man as he turned to face him. “It seems your fears were unfounded.”

“So it seems,” Galmar answered, his voice maintaining a note of caution. “Orders have been relayed. The troops will be ready at dawn.” 

“And Candlehearth?” Ulfric asked, walking with Galmar back into the room.

“Ready. They await your arrival.”

“I head there now. Give me an hour before informing the men.” Ulfric’s voice rose as he addressed Miria. “The guards will wait for you in the hall. We celebrate our impending victory tonight; I expect to see you there.”

Miria turned and nodded her understanding, after which Ulfric left the room. Galmar remained behind, however, and Miria got the feeling he was trying to read her soul through her eyes.

“This room was locked,” he said to her, an accusing note in his voice. “How did you get in?”

Miria stared at him in silence for a moment. Ulfric trusted his army, his entire war campaign, to this man. She realized she would be working with him for a good long while and, while he would never know as much about her as Ulfric did, Miria decided she would need to trust the man as well. “I picked the lock,” she explained in slow, deliberate words as she walked past him and exited the room.

He showed no outward sign of shock at her open admission, simply followed her out and re-locked the door behind them. He followed her to the door of her own room, the soldiers who had been ordered to guard her walking between them.

“Soldier,” he called to her before she entered. Miria stopped and waited for him to continue without turning to face him. “The Jarl expects you at Candlehearth in an hour; be sure you are not already too drunk to make it there.” He continued down the hall without another word.

Miria watched the man walk away, imagining all the fun she could have with him bound and gagged and begging her mercy. But she had to concede to Ulfric’s wisdom; she had robbed the keep and attended a meeting the very next day as if nothing untoward had happened. The realization that he stood with the guilty party without any inkling of her guilt had to eat away at his confidence.

She dressed quickly, donning Stormcloak colors rather than her Nightingale gear, and made her way to Candlehearth, arriving a few minutes before the appointed time. Ralof spotted her and called her over, making room for her at the end of the bench he occupied. A few of the others at the table glared at Miria, resenting her presence at the table, but she sat anyway. Ulfric had ordered her to attend and she had no intention of letting him down.

The tables were rapidly filling with soldiers and a table off to one side was weighed down with all manner of food. The smell of roasted meat caused Miria’s mouth to water but she waited with the rest of the soldiers to eat. When the room was full Ulfric stood and raised his hands above his head, bringing the room to silence.

“My friends,” he called out, opening his arms to include every soldier in the room in his address. “Tomorrow we join our brothers and sisters in the field... for war!”

Cheers erupted. Many soldiers took to their feet and held fists over their heads, cursing their enemies and declaring Nord superiority. Ulfric smiled widely and motioned for them to return to their seats.

“We have been on this path for many years. Some of you have been here from the beginning.” He turned to Galmar, who sat on his right and suddenly looked uncomfortable with the attention turned to him. “And some have joined more recently; Sigrun of Ivarstead, Ralof of Riverwood,” He indicated the men who had more recently been included in command meetings, pausing to allow applause for each. “And the Dragonborn.” Miria was surprised at the strength of the applause she received. Galmar cheered along with the crowd and the smile he wore appeared genuine.

Ulfric waited again for the crowd to quiet. “Many of our brethren have moved on to Sovngarde in this fight, and many more will move on before this is ended, but they will not die in vain! We begin our final press on the morn! We will win back Skyrim from the Imperial dogs and their Thalmor masters!”

Another cheer. It always surprised Miria how Ulfric could sway a crowd. She honestly didn’t know if he would make a good High King – she knew little of the skills necessary for such a position – but she was sure he would get the whole of Skyrim to follow him readily, even if he led them to death and destruction.

“Skyrim for the Nords!” He repeated the mantra over and over and the crowd lent him their voices. The floor beneath them shook with the thunder of the declaration and Miria dared to think they would be victorious.

Miria felt welcomed that night, a stark contrast from the uncertainty and distrust she’d experienced in the previous week. She ate well and drank better and fell into her bed with a smile on her face.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pushing through a bout of writer's block. This gets the basic idea out there; I'm expecting it will eventually be broken down into 2 or 3 chapters - when my mind's voice begins speaking again.

They headed out the next day with the rising sun, Ulfric and Galmar riding in the lead with commanders and advisors, including Miria, riding close behind. Two wagons followed, filled with the food and supplies necessary to support an army, and the army followed them, marching in three long lines, while a third wagon took up the rear. Scouts on horseback, those that Miria would lead as well as others, rode up and down the line, keeping their eyes open for any sign of enemies. 

They followed a winding path through the wild, collecting scouts that had been gathering information and troops that had come together in training camps in anticipation of their arrival. Their numbers doubled as they traveled The Pale and Whiterun and tripled when they joined with a group outside of Rorikstead. News from the camps indicated that recruits continued to arrive daily to join the rebellion.

After turning north in The Reach they expected no more reinforcements; the enemy maintained too much control this close to Solitude and their supporters from the region had traveled to Rorikstead. Three groups of scouts scoured the mountains, searching out valleys and caves for any sign that the enemy was nearby.

Miria’s group was the first to encounter Imperials, in a valley before they turned to Hjaalmarch to cross the Dragon Bridge. They had caught scent of a fire and spotted them from a rise; left their horses tethered down river as they surrounded the group.

The group was small. They were evenly matched at a dozen men, but Miria had the advantage of surprise. They approached from downwind to hide their scent from the enemy horses and the rushing water of the river obscured the sounds of their feet. The men appeared to be at ease, making camp on a routine trek with no clue that an attacking army passed close by. Four of them splashed in the relatively calm pool near the camp, their armor and clothing abandoned on shore.

Her men crept closer, keeping to the bushes and trees of the forest. The camp was in a wide clearing with much ground to cover to reach it. Miria suddenly wished she had brought Vigilance along; the hound could circle the camp and draw attention away from the tree line; but she would have to settle for what she had. She took a deep breath and calmed the butterflies in her stomach before signaling the attack.

They roared as they burst from the trees and the men in the camp scrambled to get to their weapons. Six stood in a line with their swords drawn, defending the four who rushed from the river and two others who bolted to the horses. Miria and Heddvi, the best archers in the group, pulled up and drew their bows. Two arrows sailed through the sky and before they hit their mark, two others followed. The runners fell face down in the dirt before the first swords clashed.

Andrel and Aldren, brothers who had trained together since childhood, were the first to meet the line. They ran to the center, drawing those on the ends to flank them in an attempt to pick them off before the rest hit, but the brothers worked well together and held off all six until the rest of the party caught up. The Imperials lost two more men and Godrel had suffered a wound by the time the four from the river joined them.

Miria was impressed by how the remaining Imperials shook off their surprise and initial losses to set up a defensive position, but it proved too little too late. The Stormcloaks took them down one by one, suffering little but superficial wounds in the process. A cheer rose up after the last Imperial fell and Miria ordered Ymsine to tend to the Stormcloak wounded and the brothers to finish off any Imperials that still drew breath while she walked the edges of the clearing to assure the battle had attracted no unwanted attention.

They collected the Imperial’s weapons and packed their supplies onto the horses tethered nearby. Alfed presented Miria with a small medallion; a symbol, he explained, marking the leader of the group they’d just dispatched. Godrel was able to ride out on his own when they moved out, and the group hurried to report their encounter to Ulfric.

Alfed and Soldin raced ahead on Imperial mounts to deliver their report as the rest retrieved their own mounts and led the other Imperial mounts back. When Miria emerged from the forest with the rest of the party behind her, she was greeted with cheers as the soldiers who prepared the camp for the night announced their arrival. 

Miria dismounted and walked to the command tent. She felt a rush as she walked through the camp, the anticipation of more than a week on the road peaking with the knowledge that they’d passed the enemy’s front line. Ulfric stepped out of the tent and stood with his arms crossed, watching as she approached.

She fished through her pouch for the Imperial Officer medallion, handing it to Ulfric when she reached him.

“I hear you made contact,” he said to her in greeting, his voice carrying through the camp. “The force has been dispatched?”

“Not a single man escaped,” Miria told him, matching the strength of his voice for the benefit of the soldiers that stood around them. “We’ve horses and supplies to add to our cause.”

Another cheer erupted when she announced their success and Ulfric reflected the smile that she gave him. Galmar opened the tent from the inside and gestured for the pair to enter, then sprinted off to collect the rest of the commanders.

Miria approached the war map that was already spread on a table. She pointed to the river that flowed through the mountains, a finger following its course until she came to where she had found the Imperial camp. 

“Here,” she said. She looked up to assure Ulfric had heard her when she received no response, but rather than looking where she pointed he stared at her with a cautious smile on his face. She locked eyes with him, trying to divine his thoughts, until he stepped forward and shifted his eyes to the map. She dropped her voice and continued. “There were a dozen, armed and armored but they didn’t appear to be expecting an attack.”

His smile remained as his eyes flitted here and there on the map and the silence stretched. Miria was surprised how calm he appeared with his years of work finally coming to fruition and wondered if it came naturally to him or if he had come by it through practice and effort.

“You found them!” Ralof announced as he entered the tent, Rigmard and Brandel following close behind. “Damn! I was hoping I’d get the chance.”

“You’d actually have to pay attention for that,” Miria teased him, “rather than watching the backsides of those who walk before you.”

“I don’t…” he began to defend himself, but he stopped when he noted her smile. “Bersi’s been telling stories again, hasn’t she?”

“Only the good ones,” Miria told him with a laugh.

“It’s not like you don’t give her plenty of stories to tell,” Rigmard pointed out. “How many times have you proposed to her now?”

“5? 10?” Brandel pretended to be counting his fingers. “Are we up to a score yet?”

Ralof dropped his eyes as his face turned red.

“Don’t worry,” Miria assured him, “if she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t be sticking around. I suspect she enjoys the game.”

He turned a hopeful look on her as the rest of the commanders entered and Ulfric stood to get their attention.

“We weren’t expecting them to be scouting this far out,” Ulfric began without introduction, “but we’ve already run into Imperials.” He pointed to the place on the map Miria had shown him. “The Dragon Bridge is still several hours away and would be the perfect spot for ambush, so we’ll need to assure there is none set up.

“Ralof, Sigrun, I’d like you to approach from the front, opposite sides. Keep your eyes open and return back here if you see any sign of Imperials. Dragonborn, you’ll be swinging around their flank, along the path I imagine those scouts took. Same instructions; if you see anything at all return here to report. Get up to this ridge and watch until you can see the other groups at the bridge. If they both make it, blow the horn to signal the rest of the army and make your way there.  
“Remember, keep your mages alert to any signal from the other groups. If another group is turning back, everyone turn back; we’ll need to do a bit more scouting.”

Miria nodded as she continued to study the map, planning the route her party would travel. She hadn’t seen a path when she was on the ground but the map clearly indicated one there, so she noted where it appeared to begin near a birch stand. With the meeting concluded, advisors and commanders broke into smaller groups to discuss logistics.

“Just a matter of time now,” Ralof said from behind her as she looked over the map. “Soon enough Ulfric will be sitting on the throne in Solitude.”

“In the same throne Torygg sat,” Miria added and stood to look at him. “Does Elisif look forward to sharing with the man who killed her husband, or will she be vacating her seat?”

“Politics,” Ralof muttered, as if that one word answered the question. “Harald says the people of Solitude will support Elisif; they lived under Torygg long before he sold out and even those who support the rebellion are upset about his death. To win over Solitude we have to win over Elisif.”

“Doesn’t sound very promising,” Miria pointed out, “does anyone know where she stands with this?”

“Nothing,” he answered. “The few messengers we have sent never returned. Rumor has it that Elisif herself hasn’t been seen out of the company of Imperials since Torygg’s death; she may be little more than a prisoner herself.”

Miria didn’t bother to point out that she had escaped Imperial captivity at a younger age and with fewer resources available to her, but she stayed quiet on the matter. What was really bothering her, she knew, was the assumption many made that Ulfric would marry Elisif to garner the people’s support. It was an eventuality many had assumed from the beginning of the war; it was how things in Skyrim have always been done; but it was one Miria had put out of her mind.

“Spring?” Rigmard clapped a hand on Ralof’s shoulder and looked down on the map with them. “The blasted Imperials will be out long before that!” His voice boomed as he rallied the group. “We will eat our Midwinter feast in the Blue Palace!”

The gathering erupted in cheers. A hand hit Miria in the back so hard she nearly fell over. Joldima wrapped an arm about her and gave her a quick embrace, then moved on.

Miria smiled and swept her eyes over those in the tent but her mood turned melancholy. It had taken a lot of time and effort, but she had developed a comradery with the rebel army, much as she had with the thieves’ guild. Even Galmar, with the animosity and distrust he had shown in the past, now spoke with her as an equal, if not one that he likes very much. Once again, however, her life was moving faster than she was prepared for and she struggled to keep up with it. What was she to do when the war was ended; go back to the guild, live out the rest of her life at Lakeside?

“Come on,” Ralof chided her when he caught her subdued look. “We’ve almost beaten the Imperials; I figured you’d be ecstatic.”

Ulfric had also caught his statement and he and Miria shared a look. Miria realized that the possibility they would have any contact – beyond Criminal Organizer and True King, anyway – after the war was unlikely. She forced her face to remain neutral as she turned to Ralof.

“There’s still a lot to do,” she told him, “a lot can still go wrong.”

She hadn’t intended her words to be prophesy, but they described the following week much better than the proclamations of undisputed victory any of the others gave.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter to be expanded upon later on. War is not among my natural inclinations, so it takes a bit more time to get through these chapters and make them feel natural.

The path started just where the map indicated it would, behind a copse of trees so thick Miria doubted she’d have seen a campfire from her earlier vantage point. As they climbed the scouts noted how the path was hidden from view, large boulders and greenery strategically placed to obscure it from one direction or another. Remembering the bloody history of the area, Miria wondered how many had sat watching as a battle for the Dragon Bridge played out below. 

“How long do you think we’ll have to wait,” Alfed asked Miria as they climbed. “The brothers are talking about making camp, maybe hunting a bit when we stop.”

Miria led him off to the side where they watched the other nine scouts walk by them. “There should be plenty of time,” she told him. “Several hours at least. We’re to keep someone watching at all times, but Ulfric doesn’t imagine Sigrun and Ralof will be in position until after midhour.”

Merta was out of contact with the other mages as they climbed, but as soon as they crested the ridge she reported to Miria.

“Davhid says all is well,” she told her, referring to the mage in Ralof’s group. “They’re still a few hours out of position, as is Sigrun.”

“Time to wait.” Miria turned a sarcastic smile on her. “And lucky you, you get to sit and watch.”

“Thrilling,” she responded. “I’ll be right here then, if you need me.” She sat on the ground and leaned back against a large rock, making herself comfortable for the long wait.

“Alfed,” Miria called to the man, “Build a small fire in the bowl.” She pointed to a depression nearby deep enough to hide the flames from all but the highest peaks around them. “Keep it small, we wouldn’t want to warn anyone of our presence.”

She ordered Soldin and Heddvi to remain at the camp as well and the rest to fan out and scout the immediate area to assure they were alone, and began circling the edge of the ridge herself.

She saw nothing in the darkness below, save the darker outlines of trees, boulders and the river. She had yet to see any sign of the dragon rumored to be in the area, either. Everything was quiet and peaceful and she had to remind herself of the gravity of their situation.

She caught the scent of roasting meat and her stomach growled in response. She marveled again at how efficiently the brothers worked together and was glad Ulfric had assigned them to her. She turned back to camp and began making her way there.

Their fire was little more than a faint glow when she turned, and it brightened as she got closer. She realized quickly that there was no meat roasting over their fire, no sign that any of her scouts had returned, and she broke into a run to find those she had left behind.

“Alfed,” she called when she saw the man, “where is that smell coming from?”

He looked back to their campfire in confusion as he answered, “The fire.” Then his eyes went wide as he realized the image did not match the scent. A cry drew all of their eyes to the darkness beyond the fire and Merta jumped to her feet. Just as Miria turned to order the mage to signal the other scouts, an arrow struck the woman high in the chest and she fell backward.

“Take cover!” Miria screamed, hoping that the rest of her group heard the call. She and Soldin knelt behind the boulder Merta had been lying against and Miria turned to the magic-user, desperately trying to stem the flow of blood with her own weak healing magics.

Shouts and tromping feet approached as her scouts closed in and they took cover behind the nearest trees. Arrows rained overhead but besides Merta’s grievous wound, few made contact. Ymsine took over tending to the magic-user when she arrived at the camp.

“I can’t see anyone,” Alfed growled as he squinted into the darkness. “They’re using magic to hide themselves; damn mages.” He turned to his comrade bleeding into the snow. “No offense,”

Merta didn’t respond, lost in her pain.

“We need to get out of here,” Miria insisted, “warn Ulfric before Ralof and Sigrun try to take the bridge.”

“I don’t imagine they can see us any better than we can see them,” Alfed told her. “Until they close, at any rate. If we run now, hopefully no more arrows will find their mark.”

The two locked eyes for several tense seconds, making up their minds together.

“We run on my command,” Miria finally shouted out to the rest of her scouts. “Don’t stop until you reach Ulfric.”

They nodded grimly, understanding the importance of the command. Ymsine gave Miria a weak smile when she finished binding Merta’s wound, indicating that survival was questionable. Miria gave her an understanding nod and she and Alfed hefted the mage between them, carrying her from the camp.

“Now!” Miria shouted, and the group moved out in a rush.

The scouts scattered before her, running to the path they had ascended to their vantage point. The arrows slowed and stopped and Miria heard harsh orders barked behind her. Their trail from earlier was now crossed several times from the later scouting and Miria and Alfed found themselves losing the path and correcting their direction often as they slowly lost ground with the rest of the group.

During one such correction, the snow beneath Miria’s feet fell away. She rode the small avalanche until she stopped at a small outcropping, Merta landing next to her with a groan. By sheer luck she was uninjured and she turned and looked up the nearly vertical climb in despair, Alfed barely visible as he looked down to her.

“Go,” Miria shouted to him against every base instinct she possessed. “You have to get to the army; you have to warn Ulfric.”

Alfed hesitated for just a second before he disappeared without a word. A minute later he tossed three good-sized tree branches to her. “We’ll come back for you,” he promised before he disappeared again.

Miria wedged the branches in the snow ahead and above her, hoping that it was enough cover to fool the pursuing enemy. Not long after, many feet tromping through snow sounded above her. To her relief no one noticed her and they ran past.

She turned her attention to Merta, who lay still on her back in the snow. The girl still breathed but it was obvious that the fall had exacerbated her wound; red stained the snow beneath her. Miria adjusted her position and her bandage before again casting a healing spell, using the last of her magical reserves. The blood flow slowed but did not stop and Merta’s eyes fluttered open.

“Sovngarde calls,” she croaked, the statement causing her to cough on her own blood. She looked to the sky and her face brightened in wonder. “It’s so beautiful.”

“I’d hoped you wanted to stay,” Miria told her, choking on the humorous tone she tried to force into her voice. “Alfed is on his way; Ulfric will come for us.” She said the words, even if she was unsure of the possibility of rescue.

Merta coughed again and her face pinched in pain. When the spell passed she turned her eyes to Miria. “They call for me. Mathy and Jorn, Poppa.” She coughed again and droplets of blood covered the snow around her.

Miria suddenly had the urge to see her own father and shook the idea from her mind. “Is there anyone else?” she asked, her voice turning calm.

“So many,” Merta replied and wonder returned to her eyes as they again looked to the sky above them. She stared in silence, her eyes darting this way and that as if she watched people passing by. A gust of winter wind blew the snow up around them and her face slowly changed to a look of distress. “It’s so cold.”

Miria laid in the snow next to the girl and wrapped an arm around her, huddling close. The position chased the cold from her own body and she dared hope they’d both make it off of the mountain alive. Another pained look crossed Merta’s face and Miria began talking, filling the painful silence between them.

She spoke random thoughts, a story of when she was a child followed by musings about the return of dragons and what the Gods may be planning. As her speech waned the rhythmic breathing of the girl next to her brought her comfort; at least in sleep she’d not feel pain. Miria’s own eyes grew heavy and she squeezed closer to the mage, falling into an uneasy sleep.

Sounds of a distant battle woke Miria as morning began to color the sky. Cold had begun to creep into her joints and they protested when she tried to move them. She pulled her arm from under Merta, careful not to wake her, before realizing the girl no longer drew breath. A quick check revealed that her body was already losing heat and Miria choked back a sob.

With the obligation to her shield sister no longer preventing her from leaving, Miria began to plan an escape. She stood and began jumping up and down, forcing heat back into her limbs. She couldn’t see the battle below her; the foot of the mountain still sat in shadow; but the snow around her reflected scant light from the sky. 

She saw that the ground fell as steeply to one side as it rose to the other, but the ledge followed north along the mountain for some way. Stripping one of the branches Alfed had tossed down to her to use as a walking stick, she made her way along the side of mountain.

She moved slowly, her body bruised and battered even if she had escaped serious injury. The ledge descended slightly as she went, but eventually came to an end. Miria looked around her, determined to find some way down the mountain and back to her compatriots, her friends. Glimpses of the battle raging below her came visible in the light of morning but it was impossible to tell which side was favored.

Another ledge stretched along the mountain below her, not too far, she hoped, to get to easily. She pushed away the snow where she sat with her legs dangling over the ledge; the slope was still too steep to be safe but she figured the only other option available to her was to starve or freeze on the mountain. Steeling herself for the worst, she pushed herself off the ledge and slid down.

She rode down on her back, hitting the next ledge hard and twisting an ankle. The sound of the battle below her increased only slightly and Miria wondered just how long it would take her to reach the bottom.

Miria continued to descend the mountain, dropping onto a lower ledge whenever one came close enough to be a viable landing spot. The sun travelled overhead and the sounds of battle continued below, waning slightly on a couple of occasions only to pick back up shortly after. As it neared the horizon the wind turned colder and picked up. Miria realized she’d have to find some sort of shelter as the sounds of battle below her waned and the armies separated for the night.

She was about half way down when she came upon an overhang and dug into the snow there. When she hit rock she began pushing the snow aside, digging a hole with three foot snow walls on three sides and a stone wall that curved over her on the fourth. She ate the dried meat and melted snow to tame her hunger pangs. She hugged her legs to her body to trap as much heat as she could and spent the night in the hole, shivers keeping her from reaching any true state of sleep.

Miria was relieved to see the sun begin to brighten the sky again, thankful that she had survived another night on the mountain. As she dug out of her hole to begin her descent again, a cry echoed over the mountains. The rumored dragon, likely attracted to the smell of death from the field below her, but it kept its distance.

Snow began to fall and the temperature plummeted. Miria couldn’t feel her feet and began jumping to force blood into them, causing them to sting for many long minutes. The sounds of battle resumed as she warmed her body and she leaned over the edge to watch. When the stinging passed she continued on her trek, hunger and exhaustion making her steps sluggish. She slowed further, worried that any misstep would be her doom.

As she came to the end of another ledge she realized the one below it was quite far away. She tried to remember if she had seen a closer one back along her path but decided she wouldn’t go back to look; she was suffering from exposure and any delay could be deadly. Praying silently that the Gods really were interested in her survival, she closed her eyes and rode the slope down.

She gained too much speed as she fell and grabbed at the rocks and snow to slow her descent. Fingernails tore and she left a trail of red snow behind her, and still she jumped the ledge when she reached it. The ground rushed up beneath her and she landed hard on another ledge below, this one wide enough to support a stand of trees. 

It took some time to draw breath and when she did it came out in a bloody cough. A stabbing sensation in her right side told her she had broken at least one rib, but by this time she was nearly numb to the chorus of pain in her body. She struggled to her knees and forced her breathing to steady before stumbling to the ledge to see how far she had fallen.

Miria looked down on an active battle field, 30 feet or more below. The sun was just on the horizon and as it fell below both armies began carrying their injured from the battlefield, ceding it until morning. The cliff she was on was sheer as far as she could see to either side, but that wasn’t saying much in the waning light. She backed from the edge and leaned back against a tree, looking forward to another night on the mountain.

She reached within herself and found the energy for a single healing spell, flinching as ribs knit and the tears in her lungs closed. The lingering numbness in her feet also eased and she quickly found herself falling to oblivion.


	9. Chapter 9

It was still dark when the dragon’s cry woke Miria, with no hint of the coming dawn in the sky. The beast was so close she could hear its wings beating the air and shouts from below warned the army of its presence. Torches were lit and groups of soldiers moved below her, preparing for the attack. Miria rubbed her arms and stomped her feet to chase frostbite from them. 

“Where is it?” a panicked voice shouted from below. “I can’t see it. I can’t see it.”

The sound of beating wings faded and returned as the beast flew circles over the army. A roar split the air above her, followed by shouts of fear from below.

“Figures the thing would wait ‘til we lost the Dragonborn,” a voice shouted. “Cross the bridge, Dragon, nice fat Imperials there!”

Torches dotted the soldier’s line as they waited. Arrows flew, but they fell well short of their mark. The beast circled again and with a rush of air landed below the ridge. It lit the field with a pillar of flame, revealing a circle of soldiers backing away as two screamed from somewhere in the fire. Miria saw Ulfric, surrounded by commanders, behind the line and just below the ridge on her right. Then the battlefield was left in darkness.

“Attack!” a cry rang out. As her vision returned, Miria saw the line of torches advance. 

Miria searched frantically for anything that would help her down as the fight below her raged. The cliff was too steep to climb and she had no rope to aid her. Flashes of dragonfire preceded screams from soldiers as they died on the field and Miria watched the creature advance. The officers surrounding Ulfric drew their swords as the Jarl himself continued to shout orders.

The ground was 30 feet below her but Miria noted that the great bulk of the dragon filled the area. As it closed the distance to the commanders she pulled one of her swords and moved to stand directly above them. She crouched and waited. Galmar roared and the rest of the officers lent their voices to his challenge. Ulfric pulled his sword and prepared to fight.

When Galmar stepped forward, Miria sprang into the air. Their cries mingled between them, Galmar’s a growl and Miria’s a shriek. As she flew through the air she saw her target, between the wings where there was enough room to hope she’d find purchase. When she landed she was rewarded with her ebony blade sinking to its hilt in the creature’s back. 

In shock and pain, the beast reared and tried to throw Miria off, but her grip remained true. Galmar took advantage of the distraction and swung at the dragon’s front legs, but his sword bounced off the rock-hard scales. As the soldiers around him joined in the fight, however, several found gaps between the great plates. As the pain became more than just annoyance, the dragon forgot her and turned its attention to them. 

Miria struggled for balance as the beast swayed this way and that, holding tight to the sword buried in its back as she pulled her second. The scales here were softer and more pliable than those on its chest, allowing free movement of its wings, and Miria had little trouble burying her second blade next to its partner.

The dragon reared again and this time Miria lost her grip and flew through the dark, landing hard many feet away. The dragon stood tall over the commanders, crying out a challenge that echoed in the peaks around them. When the commanders advanced the dragon fell onto them, crushing Rigmard under the weight of a great forepaw. It drew a breath, preparing to cook them all where they stood, but Miria struggled to her knees and Shouted to interrupt the attack.

The Shout stunned the creature and sent the commanders sprawling. As the dragon turned to again face Miria, she pulled her bow from her back and sent an arrow into it, then another as it began to advance. It drew in another long breath and Miria dove and rolled to the left, barely staying ahead of the fiery breath that followed, before returning to her feet and fitting another arrow to her bow. A stab in her chest revealed that her recently repaired rib had fractured again and she nearly stumbled when her sprained ankle faltered.

“Thirty seconds!” Galmar shouted as the dragon took a step closer. She saw him turn to the men he stood with, pointing this way and that and issuing orders in a desperate attempt for the upper hand. She started a mental countdown and was grateful when the dragon seemed to more carefully consider its next move.

Miria scanned the area around her quickly before returning her eyes to the dragon. She retreated slowly as the dragon took another step closer. As it drew another deep breath, Miria dodged to the side, pressing herself against a thick-trunked tree. 

Heat erupted around her and the crown of the tree burst into flame. Miria felt her cheeks burn and smelled singed hair as licks of flame reached to her, but she remained uninjured. Her countdown reached twenty when the beast ended its attack and Miria darted back out and sent another arrow into its chest.

Another step had the dragon towering over Miria. She dodged to the right, avoiding Rigmard’s fate, and continued the stream of arrows. Three protruded from its neck before it was able to turn its bulk to face her. Believing she had nowhere to run to, it raised a leg above her.

Miria let go another arrow before again rolling away, and this one stuck fast in the beast’s eye. It reared back and roared in pain. Ten.

The dragon bore down on her and Miria managed to avoid both claws as they crashed down on either side. Its great head followed, however, and teeth clenched around her and lifted her from the ground. Bruises formed where her armor prevented teeth from penetrating her skin and Miria pulled at her bow only to discover it was caught among the creature’s many teeth.

Desperate, Miria reached for an arrow and pulled the last from her quiver. Clutching it like a dagger, she forced it into the beast’s muzzle. It shook its head back and forth, shaking her like a ragdoll as spittle and blood soaked her, but its bite remained strong. She struck it again and again and the beast clenched its teeth tighter in response. Miria’s strikes weakened as she struggled for breath and she cried weakly when another rib snapped under the pressure.

When she worried she would lose consciousness, the beast dropped her and cried out in pain. It turned to the soldiers that attacked from behind, favoring a leg as four men attacked it simultaneously. It drew a breath, but arrows trailing the blue glow of magic struck from both sides, interrupting the attack. The dragon turned its head to the right and let loose a blast of flame, but the men took cover behind a hastily-erected shield wall as their comrades on the left continued the assault. When the dragon turned to the left the men switched tactics, those on the left raising their shields as those on the right took up the attack.

Miria struggled to her knees and Shouted again, this time sending a flurry of ice and cold at the creature. It turned on her, offering the archers on both sides an opening. Balls of fire drifted into the battle, a more direct attack from the mages, and a slight smile graced Miria’s features. The beast took a deep breath, preparing another blast, but instead it collapsed to the ground as flame engulfed it.

The hiss of fire on snow was the only sound that could be heard for several long second as the armies on both sides looked in disbelief at the immobile form. A faint light swirled as the body turned to shadow, growing brighter as it gathered the life force of the dragon and delivered it to Miria. She felt power as it entered her body, like lightening in her veins, but it was not enough to hide the pain and exhaustion of battle.

Miria stumbled on her feet and glanced over her shoulder as she retrieved her swords. Many Imperial soldiers had crossed the bridge when the dragon attacked and were struck dumb and motionless as they watched. Now, however, they saw their enemy rattled and battle-weary. The excitement of their movements was obvious as they prepared to take advantage.

The soldiers around Miria noted this, too, and shouted commands brought them back to some semblance of order. A soldier she did not recognize grabbed her roughly as a roar built behind her, shuffling her through the bulk of the army to the relative safety of the rear guard. She caught sight of Ulfric as they walked and tried veering toward him, but the hand that led her held more strength than she could summon.

She turned toward the sound of battle as it rose behind her, intending to fight with the rest, but the move caused a shot of pain that would have brought her to her knees if not for the fellow soldier holding her up. “Rest up here,” he told her, seating her with the supplies and other injured soldiers. He then sprinted off, getting lost in the sea of bodies and voices they had just escaped.

Miria tried again to rise to her feet and return to the battle, blind loyalty taking over where reason faltered, but pain and another strong hand kept her in place. She accepted the mug she was offered but abandoned it after a single drink – the medicated concoction tended to dull her mind and she preferred to stay sharp on the battlefield. The medic gave a sheepish smile to the accusing look she shot at him and proceeded to tend to her wounds.

The battle didn’t last long. The Imperials hadn’t been prepared for an attack and the Stormcloaks proved more capable than they had assumed. Miria drifted in and out of a semi-conscious state, wanting nothing more than to sleep but unable to forget her comrades who fought a short distance away. As the sounds of battle waned, however, exhaustion won out and she fell to a dreamless sleep.


End file.
